The Real World- the Point of Death

by Laurence Todd

  All except one. A Vauxhall Corsa, parked two streets away from Garlinge’s house, had been checked by Herts police and found to be registered to a car hire company based in Marylebone, central London. Because it’d been a public figure who’d been found dead, Herts police had passed this information on to Special Branch as a matter of routine.

  I drove to TC Motors, on the corner of Baker Street and Allsop Place, where the Corsa had been hired from. I showed ID to the manager, Tom Coulton, gave him the car’s registration number and asked who it’d been hired out to. He brought up the details on his computer.

  “Car was hired for the weekend early last Friday afternoon by a woman named Jane Mackley. She looked the car over, liked what she saw and paid for a weekend hire. She returned it first thing this morning. I remember her because she paid for the hire in cash, all £215 of it.” He pointed to the figure on the screen. “Not many people do this. Said she’d lost her credit cards when her bag had been stolen, and was waiting for replacements to be issued, and she needed to hire a car as she was going away for the weekend.”

  “She say where she was going, or who with?”

  “No, and we didn’t ask either.”

  “Any problems with her hiring the car?”

  “None at all. She’d a valid driver’s licence, had one for several years. Her licence was clean, no points or endorsements, and the car was returned earlier this morning before we’d even opened, and in exactly the same condition she hired it in. From the milometer it looks as though she didn’t go too far either, drove less than two hundred miles. She’d even left it with a full petrol tank. We’ve just had it polished and cleaned, interior and outside, and it’s ready for hiring out again.”

  So much for my hope of sequestering the car to have it dusted for prints. “So you didn’t see her again after this.”

  “No, she returned it today, really early, about six-ish. The morning cleaner was just arriving and she saw a woman park the car, drop the keys into the deposit box, and hail a nearby taxi. I mean, returning a vehicle early like this isn’t unusual, lots of people do it, so she didn’t think anything of it, just went to work.”

  “You have a picture of her licence?” I asked.

  “We do, actually.” He grinned widely. “We scan the licence of everyone hiring a car; that way we can target them with our marketing mailshots.”

  “Show me her picture.”

  He brought it up onscreen. I let out a breath. The hair was done differently from the last time I’d seen the face, but I still recognised her, and I knew instantly this woman’s name was not Jane Mackley. I noted the address and knew straight away it was false. I told Coulton, if she ever hired a car again from TC Motors, I wanted to be informed. He agreed to let me know.

  I knew the address was false because it was the same one I’d seen used a couple of months ago by someone else, also using a bogus licence. I also knew the face in the picture. Despite the different hairstyle, the facial colouring and glasses, it was still her.

  The woman in the picture was Michael Mendoccini’s girlfriend, Angie Delucca.

  *

  I had the CCTV images for the Baker Street area brought up for the morning in question. At six past six I saw the Corsa pulling into the forecourt. Angie Delucca parked the car, took a travel bag from the passenger’s seat, walked to the main door and dropped something into a slot. Something about the forecourt made me curious, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. She then hailed a taxi and I noted the registration.

  The driver was located five minutes later. He confirmed he’d picked up a fare in Marylebone outside TC Motors at nine past six. He said he’d driven a woman to St Pancras station as she’d said she had to catch a train in an hour. He’d dropped her at the station eight minutes later. I asked if she’d said anything, and he replied she’d said St Pancras, please on entering the back of the cab and thank you when she’d paid the fare. She’d said nothing else.

  I checked train times. There’d been a Eurostar service to Paris at quarter past seven, which I was certain was the train she’d have been aiming for. I looked at my watch; well past mid-afternoon. Angie Delucca would have been arriving in Paris when I’d been talking to Kevin Sharone, and she’d now be on another train on her way back to Milan.

  All I had on her was that she’d hired a car which’d been seen in the Hemel Hempstead area on the night Charles Garlinge had been murdered. There was no evidence she was involved, and Garlinge’s wife hadn’t said anything about hearing a female voice outside. But had she driven the assassin to Garlinge’s house and waited? Or was she the actual killer; had she killed Garlinge? The only thing we had listed on file about her was that she was known to be Michael Mendoccini’s girlfriend. She wasn’t on our files as an active member of Red Heaven, though her boyfriend was, as was her father Roberto, currently serving time in prison for knowingly allowing his premises to be used by Red Heaven.

  Had she arrived in the country the same time as Michael? She’d left the country by train. But it was a safe assumption Michael Mendoccini hadn’t arrived the same way.

  It then dawned on me what it’d been about the forecourt at TC Motors which’d got me thinking. I’d seen a large minibus parked in the corner of the forecourt.

  My police instincts kicked in. I went online and brought up details of TC Motors. As well as being a car hire firm, it also offered a minibus service taking small parties of up to a dozen people to various destinations around the country. One of the destinations offered was the Isle of Wight. Michael Mendoccini had escaped last time by being smuggled on a coach trip to the Isle of Wight. Angie Delucca had hired a car from a firm offering trips to the Isle of Wight. A coincidence?

  I brought up details for Tom Coulton. I’d come across the name Coulton three days ago when I’d begun looking at coach firms in the London area. Mark Coulton was Tom’s brother, he drove for Blueline buses and was clean, but Tom was listed as being friends with two persons known to have been associated with Red Heaven. There was no evidence Tom had participated in any known Red Heaven activity, but it was a connection nonetheless.

  I phoned TC Motors and was answered by the elderly woman I’d seen in the office earlier. I asked if the firm still offered minibus trips to the Isle of Wight.

  “Yes, we do,” she said, in a pleasant phone voice. “We cater for small parties, typically five to ten people, usually going to play golf or go on a walking holiday.”

  “Do you leave from your premises in Marylebone?”

  “We do, yes.”

  “When’s your next trip?”

  “Friday midday. We’re taking a group of seven or eight ramblers who’re going on a weekend walking holiday, leaving at 1 pm, returning mid-Sunday evening. There’re still a few places left if you’d like to reserve a seat.”

  “Has anyone booked just a one-way trip?”

  “No. All the party are booked to return Sunday.”

  “I’ll get back to you. Thanks.” I hung up.

  Was Mendoccini booked on the minibus as a rambler?

  *

  Forty-five minutes later I was contacted by Victoria Sacchialli. I didn’t bother asking how she’d obtained my number.

  “I’ve heard from our Milan office,” she said, adopting a businesslike manner. “It would appear your friend Mendoccini and his partner Angie have gone away on holiday. There’s no evidence they’ve left Italy, they’re not on any flight or train passenger lists, but they’re both unaccounted for and we can’t trace them anywhere in the country. They’ve not been seen for a number of days. We’ve checked, and they’ve not used their credit or debit cards in the past couple of weeks; they don’t seem to have bought tickets to go anywhere or used their mobiles to make any phone calls in the past week or so.”

  I didn’t say anything. I knew Angie was travelling under the name Mackley, so I assumed Michael was also travelling under an alias. If they were using aliases it would explain why there was no activity on their own bank accounts.

/>   “They’re the only ones we cannot account for in Milan,” Sacchialli said.

  This could mean only one thing.

  “What, you think they’re over here?” I asked.

  “We’re looking into this now. I thought you ought to know.”

  “Yeah, thanks. We’ll be looking out for them.”

  “If he contacts you . . .”

  “You’ll be informed,” I replied. I was relieved she’d not said this earlier.

  *

  I was about to go off duty when Smitherman requested my presence. He gestured for me to sit. The expression on his face told me he had something on his mind.

  “I have to ask you something very important.” He stared directly into my eyes. This wasn’t a good omen. “When was the last time you saw Michael Mendoccini?”

  “When I chased him through Soho months ago,” I replied immediately. It was true.

  “You’ve not seen him since then?”

  “No, I haven’t.” We’d spoken, but I’d not seen him.

  I tensed up, stomach muscles tightening, waiting for him to ask if I’d spoken to him, and wondering whether I’d lie or cover it up, but it was my lucky day. He didn’t ask.

  “Okay.” He believed me. He nodded formally. “Italian security, AISE, believes he could be here in the UK. They don’t know where he is in Italy, and they believe Red Heaven placed Garlinge on a kill list. Their thinking is” – he paused – “Mendoccini could be the killer. His picture’s being circulated and a close watch’s being kept on all points of exit from the country. If he’s here, we’ll pick him up.”

  “His girlfriend Angie Delucca’s also in the country, or at least she was until earlier today.” I came straight back with this.

  Smitherman looked astonished. “How’d you know this?”

  I explained how I’d discovered this via the Neighbourhood Watch in Garlinge’s area and the car hire firm, plus my belief she’d caught the Eurostar to Paris earlier today. “She showed them a valid driver’s licence. It was in another name, but I recognised her face straight away. It was definitely Angie Delucca. So, if she’s got a licence, it’s a fair bet she also has an identity document of some kind in the same name.”

  I briefly wondered whether Harry Ferguson had been involved in Angie Delucca obtaining her bogus licence in any way. I knew the address on Angie Delucca’s driving licence was false. I knew this because, when I’d been looking for Cormac McGreely recently, someone who looked like him had pranged a parked vehicle at the Bluewater shopping centre. He’d shown a licence to the innocent party and the address listed in West Dulwich had turned out to be nonexistent. Angie Delucca’s licence had given the same address.

  “The car she’d hired was spotted by Neighbourhood Watch parked two or three streets from Garlinge’s house.” I shrugged. “Makes sense. Park well away from the area, no immediate connections made.”

  “You think she could’ve killed Garlinge?”

  “I very much doubt it.” I shook my head. “I suspect, if she’s involved in any way, she was just the driver.”

  “What about Mendoccini?” He fixed me with his intense stare again. I knew what he was asking and why.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said slowly. I hoped I was right. “The Mike Mendoccini I knew wasn’t a killer.”

  “But you can’t definitively rule it out, can you?” He paused for a moment. “Can you really be certain you know what he’s capable of now?” He said this slowly and with careful emphasis.

  “Probably not.”

  It was true, I couldn’t. If I were being brutally honest, I’d have to say I really didn’t know much about Michael Mendoccini any longer, but that didn’t stop me having feelings for him.

  Smitherman said nothing for a few seconds. From the expression on his face, I knew what was coming next.

  “Alright.” He paused ominously. “I’m only going to say this one time. If he is in the country, and he contacts you and asks to meet up again, you’re to inform me straight away. Not ex post facto; straight away.” He wasn’t asking me. “I allowed you a little latitude last time when you didn’t follow standard operating procedure. I told Stimpson I knew you were meeting with him and, while I can’t say I approved of your meeting him, I accepted your reasoning for why you did this, but there can be, and there will be, no excuses or justifications this time, DS McGraw. You have your duty and I expect operating procedure to be followed at all times. Is this clear?” His face was set firm.

  I indicated my agreement. I’d expected no less. He then asked what I’d been doing.

  “I’ve been talking to a couple of informants about this,” I said, “and my information is Garlinge was involved with Italian security’s arrest of several key Red Heaven personnel a couple of months ago, which is why they’d want to have him killed. Any truth to this?”

  He looked at me with abject surprise, eyes opened wide like a priest who’d caught an altar boy drinking the communion wine.

  “Where did you hear this?” He looked puzzled and sounded concerned.

  “From a source who’s well placed to know about such things.”

  He sat back in his seat and didn’t reply. I could see he was considering whom my source might be, as well as attempting to formulate a response.

  “I was told Garlinge could have been a Red Heaven kill,” I said, “because, apparently, killing by injection to make death appear from natural causes is one of their specialities. This isn’t the first time someone on their shitlist’s been killed this way.”

  Smitherman looked thoughtful and nodded. “I’m not in a position to comment on this,” – I’d caught him out and he had no ready answer – “but for the moment this ought not be mentioned outside this office.” This wasn’t a suggestion.

  I said I’d keep it to myself. At the same time, though, I was convinced Smitherman had already known what I’d just told him.

  I stood, ready to leave. “So, with Garlinge now out of the picture, where does this leave us with Armswatch?”

  Smitherman had a mildly exasperated expression on his face. “Keep up, DS McGraw.” He almost smiled at me.

  “Huh? What have I missed?”

  “Earlier today, the High Court granted Treasury Counsel’s request for an injunction preventing Armswatch from making any use of what they claim they’re in possession of, and it was served on them a couple of hours ago. At the same time, a DSMA notice was issued to the editors of all major national newspapers informing them, if Armswatch passes any information to them about arms sales or anything alleging bribery, they ought not print it at this time because of national security considerations.”

  “But this isn’t like last time, is it, when someone got into their offices and stole confidential information?” I asked. “What they have now was leaked to them, and it’s just allegations of bribery and operating a slush fund, both of which are criminal offences, and Garlinge pretty much admitted it. I’ve had this corroborated by two other sources.”

  “Yes, both of whom are in prison for similar offences.” He smiled. Touché.

  “So, how can this be injuncted?”

  “On the grounds of the national interest, DS McGraw.”

  He told me to sit back down. I did.

  “Why do you think Bartolome was rescued recently when it was close to bankruptcy?” The question was rhetorical and I didn’t respond. “Bartolome’s a very strategically important company, and if it were allowed to go out of business, there’d be no other UK armaments company capable of filling the gap it’d leave at short notice. So this would mean the MOD would have to place this country’s defence in the hands of companies based abroad, over which the government here would be able to exercise little or no control, which immediately becomes an unacceptable security risk.”

  He was speaking slowly and solemnly, as though reading the gospel in church.

  “What you’ve told me about bribery and payments made from a slush fund has been known for some time, DS McGraw.”


  I was momentarily dumbstruck by this. “But, last Friday, you told me to investigate—”

  “Yes, I know what I asked you to do,” he cut in, “but at that point we weren’t exactly sure what Armswatch actually knew, so you were asked to check them out. Go in undercover, if you like; give the impression the authorities didn’t know what Bartolome was doing to secure orders.”

  “Which is what I did.”

  “Indeed.” He nodded, then sat back in his chair. “I mean, think about it for a moment. Do you honestly believe a company like Bartolome could operate a slush fund without the security service knowing about it? You think MI5 or MI6 don’t have sources inside defence contractors?”

  Again, the question was rhetorical, and I didn’t venture a reply.

  “The main concern of Government now is keeping it all within acceptable limits. This way, no undue suspicion falls upon any individual or the firm.”

  “What about the Serious Fraud Office?”

  “What about it?” He shrugged. “The SFO can only investigate allegations of bribery and corruption if something’s reported to them, but if they never know about it, then . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  I was about to ask a question, but he raised his hand to indicate I shouldn’t.

  “It’s a complicated picture, DS McGraw, but, for the moment, I can’t fill in any more gaps until security’s satisfied any damage is containable.”

  He nodded. I got up to leave.

  “Remember what I said about Mendoccini, DS McGraw.”

  *

  A message had been left on my desk from my contact in MI6. Yes, MI6 were aware of Bozetti and they believed someone inside was involved in ensuring Red Heaven obtained weapons, but for the moment he couldn’t be any more specific.

  *

  Taylor and I were in the kitchen. She was cooking something which smelt lovely and I was making a pot of coffee, having decided against a beer. We were talking about our respective days. I had mentioned Smitherman’s warning about the consequences if Mendoccini and I were to meet up again without my following standard operating procedure. She’d just asked whether I would report meeting him if it came to that when a thought, one so blindingly bloody obvious I couldn’t believe it hadn’t made itself known to me a few days ago, crashed into my brain. It was as though I’d had cataracts removed and I could see clearly again.